


Kings

by linguamortua



Category: Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Ex Sex, Friendship/Love, Hurt Frank Castle, M/M, Oral Sex, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25434292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: September in New York City is bringing chill winds and something else: a string of murders of homeless veterans. Frank’s supposed to be keeping his head down but he's fixed on figuring out who’s doing it. It’s a hell of a way to reconnect with an old boyfriend—if that’s what you want to call what Frank and Billy used to be.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Billy Russo
Comments: 21
Kudos: 78
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kameiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/gifts).



> Hi friend! I'm so excited to present you with this fic that spiralled out of control into a novella. This is set in the Punisher TV universe, and you can imagine it as an alternate season one. Everything you know about who and where the characters are is roughly the same, but this story unrolls differently.

**i.**

You crash over the trees,  
you crack the live branch—  
the branch is white,  
the green crushed,  
each leaf is rent like split wood.  
You burden the trees  
with black drops,  
you swirl and crash—  
you have broken off a weighted leaf  
in the wind,  
it is hurled out,  
whirls up and sinks,  
a green stone.

H.D., _Storm_

**ii.**

It’s early.

Frank wakes with a faint headache, the memory of drinking the night before. There’s a sour taste in his mouth. His body aches; his body always aches. It’s hard to remember a time when he wasn’t in some kind of pain, but that’s the life he’s chosen. With a groan, he rolls out of bed and pulls himself to his feet. It’s still dark. He goes into the bathroom to take a shower, without bothering to turn a light on.

The noise of the shower drowns out the rain outside. Fall is closing in, and with it the city is greyer, wetter, colder. Frank turns the heat up in the shower a little, compensating. It sputters something a little more than lukewarm over him. He scrubs himself from top to toe, and then he tips back his head, opens his mouth and gulps water. Rinses his mouth and spits. By the time he steps out of the shower he feels half-human. The air is cold and he towels off vigorously, trying not to shiver. He turns on the light so he can see to brush his teeth in the mirror. Then he inspects his bloodshot eyes.

In the cold light of day, or at least the cold light of his bathroom, he’s irritated at his lack of discipline. He’s got no business getting into the habit of drinking alone. Curtis would read him the riot act over that if he knew. Frank has no intention of telling him, because Curtis has more important things to worry about than Frank shambling around the city like a semi-alcoholic asshole. Besides, some sad little part of Frank still hopes he’s got Curtis’ respect.

He pulls on his work clothes and makes a sandwich. His watch beeps. It’s six in the morning.

Outside, it’s quiet. It’s early enough that there’s only a trickle of people making their way through the streets near Frank’s single-occupancy building. Lately the days have been getting shorter, so the early September mornings have a grey, unformed feel to them, the sun lurking petulantly under the horizon. The sound of Frank’s truck starting scares up a cluster of pigeons from the roof, and he takes the time to watch them wheel and hop onto the next building. He can feel the blisters on his hands against the steering wheel; from yesterday and the day before and all the days before that. They never heal, because every day he opens them back up again. Sometimes the dull chafe of a hammer’s handle against raw skin is the only thing that feels real.

There’s nobody at the site when he gets there. That means that by the time the other guys start to trickle in, Frank’s built up a good rhythm and a proper sweat. If he works himself hard enough every day he can mostly sleep at night. If he can successfully push everything away but the swing of the hammer and its gritty rasp on his hands, he can mostly avoid the other thoughts creeping in. The bad ones. Somewhere behind him, he hears jeering. He ignores it. Whatever pathetic attempts they make to get his attention, to hurt him, aren’t even worth breaking his rhythm for. He swings again, making clouds of dust that prick his eyes and nose. What do they know about suffering? What do they know about loss? Maria’s face swims back up in his mind.

He should push it down again, but unbidden, a new fantasy comes to his mind. This is his job. He works in construction. After his shift finishes, he will go home to his wife and his two children. He will do this every single night. The kids will grow up with their father at the dinner table, at the breakfast table, doing the school run in his battered but serviceable truck. Never once has he killed a man. The greatest adversity this other version of Frank could imagine would be—what? Losing his job? Or some minor domestic tragedy. Lisa falling off the monkey bars and breaking her arm. Telling the kids that the dog died. He could solve those problems. He would have all the answers.

Frank swings his sledgehammer again, dispelling the fantasy, and a section of wall bellies outwards and then falls with a clatter and a shower of old drywall. No family here: just sweat and pain. Behind him, the foreman yells at the other guys to get their shit together.

Frank keeps working.

* * *

In a much nicer part of the city and wearing much nicer shoes, Billy Russo is assaulted with problems from the moment he walks through the door. A pipe leak that maintenance can’t handle, which means calling someone in; a capital expense that he must sign off on. Two guys running a betting ring within the four walls of Billy’s company. Billy fires them both immediately. Overnight, a burst of emails protesting the military-industrial complex, suggesting that somewhere, Anvil has been profiled again on some bleeding heart’s website. And, worst of all, his fucking coffee maker has given up the ghost.

He handles the issues, caffeine-less and headachey, as he dispatches Lebow to the nearest coffee shop. Then he retreats in a black mood to his office. He tries, honest to God, to run Anvil like a real unit. And yet half the time his employees scurry about like morons, like _civilians_. Pathetically desperate for direction. Not a problem Billy Russo has ever had.

His present concern is a special project: a directive from a DC suit with a bee in his bonnet about a threat. National security, blah blah blah, patriotism, blah blah blah. It’s all bullshit. If it was a real threat to national security, Homeland would be taking care of it.

He doesn’t mind the contract work: likes it, in fact. It’s the inefficiency he finds irritating. The lack of information. The secrecy. Knowing that the whole project is special clearances wrapped in government politics wrapped in plausible deniability. They’ll feed Billy just enough for him to do the dirty work, and then hang him out to dry if it all goes wrong. But the money, oh god, the money. And it least it’s interesting. It makes him feel like a hunter again instead of a glorified manager.

At least twice a week he closes his eyes, rubs his temples in the privacy of his office, and wishes for half a dozen Curtis Hoyles or Frank Castles, who could be trusted to keep things ticking over while he attends to loftier matters. He wonders again if there’s any sum of money that would convince Curtis to work for him.

Or that would bring Frank back from the dead.

Unbidden, the smell of the desert comes back to him. Its baked canvas and strange winds. For a moment he can almost feel the weight of his uniform. Frank on his left, of course, solid and reliable. Billy thinks he can smell Frank, too: the weird reek of sweaty Kevlar, but also the smell of his skin. Billy shivers. Then he strokes the silky lapel of his suit with two fingers, bringing himself back, grounding himself.

Lebow arrives back, carrying a cappuccino with the utmost care and delivering it directly to Billy’s right hand. Billy revises his estimate of the man up by about three percent, and then dismisses him. Sipping his coffee assists with the headache. Billy leans back in his leather chair and crosses his legs at the ankles. With the quotidien problems out the way, he can turn his attention to the matter that he needs to get cleared up. A nice puzzle. A little bird from Washington with covert requirements. Billy enjoys the cheeping of the high and mighty whenever they need a dirty solution to a problem. It’s not the reason Billy got into this business, but it’s a sideline that’s both profitable and amusing when he takes the time to do the work correctly. He lets his mind drift around the task, not focusing too hard. It’s like a magic eye image: if Billy stares at it too hard, he’ll never solve it. The thoughts settle like sediment at the bottom of a wine bottle and, eventually, clarity will come. He never did have that direct tactical mind like Frank. Billy thinks in circles, rings within rings.

‘Back from the dead,’ he says to himself very softly, thinking about Frank. Not the first time he’s thought about him lately. It’s about the time of year that he and Curtis go and pour one out for Frankie on his grave. Frank’s birthday. They stand there in the dark like idiots, drinking from the same bottle and telling each other the stories they both know by heart, because both of them were there when they happened. They get a little maudlin, all old-soldiers about Frank. And Curtis is always tactful about the fact that they buried Frank with his fucking wife and his fucking children, while Billy gets to be alone and very much alive.

Well, wherever Frank is right now, Billy hopes he’s happy.

‘Cheers,’ Billy says ironically into his empty coffee cup, and he launches it in a perfect arc into the trash.

**iii.**

Curtis calls at lunchtime. Billy, picking the protein parts out of an _artisanal_ chicken sandwich with disinterest, answers the desk phone with his elbow and puts Curtis on speakerphone.

‘Hey.’

‘Got a minute?’ Curtis asks, sounding worried. Billy props his elbows on his desk and wipes pesto off his fingers.

‘Sure. What do you need?’

‘Have you turned on the news today?’

In the privacy of his office, Billy allows himself to raise his eyebrows. He pops open the local news on his computer. Ticking across the endless video feed at the top of the page is a screaming headline: VETERAN MURDERS: THIRD MAN FOUND DEAD IN QUEENS. Billy isn’t at all surprised. He clicks through and scrolls the article. No witnesses.

‘One of your guys?’ Billy asks.

‘Three of my guys,’ says Curtis, grimly. He sounds rattled. Billy listens with interest, fascinated always by the strange workings of people and their emotions.

Billy looks through the two-way glass in his office and watches his employees scurrying around. He’s bored enough to entertain the concept of listening to Curtis talk about his guys some more. Besides, he has a cheque to give Curtis, and handing it over in person always makes him feel noble and good. Billy is self-aware enough to both enjoy the feeling of his own benevolence and to know it for what it is: sentiment, weakness. He stretches in his chair, dumps the picked-over remains of his lunch and remembers to set his office status to ‘away’ for the benefit of his personal assistant.

‘Why don’t you come over?’ he asks. ‘Tell me more about this. I can send a car.’

‘Don’t send a car,’ Curtis says. ‘I’ll be there in thirty.’

That tracks, Billy thinks. Last time Billy showed up to check out the space Curtis uses for his group sessions, Curtis chastised him for parking his car in the spaces reserved for church visitors. And told him that showing up in a luxury vehicle with a driver was a dick move in that part of town. Billy smiles to himself. He likes how Curtis doesn’t give a fuck about money or power or cars. He likes how the guy will drag himself across town on one leg in the subway, just to make a point.

He cancels his afternoon meetings and brushes his teeth in his private bathroom. Then he rearranges the stuff on his desk to look more like he’s been working. Curtis is a hardass about that sometimes.

Not today, though. Billy’s staff know to send Curtis in whenever he arrives, and so he comes through the office door without ceremony, shoulders slumped.

‘Man, I’m sorry,’ Billy says immediately he walks in. He gets up, even, and walks over. They bump shoulders in lieu of a hug.

‘Me too. What kind of asshole preys on homeless veterans?’

‘The news said three in two weeks.’

‘Doesn’t seem like a coincidence, does it?’

Billy takes a glance past Curtis at the door. ‘Do you need protection, Curt? I can have two guys looking out for you round the clock.’

Curtis snorts, and pulls up his sweater. His pistol is tucked in his waistband. ‘I’m missing a leg, not a brain.’

‘You need anything, you say the word.’

‘What I need is to understand who’s doing this and why.’

‘Cops been around?’

‘Oh, sure,’ says Curtis, with an unbecoming measure of sarcasm, ‘the NYPD’s throwing all their resources into figuring out why three homeless dudes are dead. C’mon, Bill. I called, they sent a kid over to take a statement. I’m not holding my breath.’

‘Let me handle it,’ says Billy. Curtis’ mouth is a grim line, and Billy hates to see him like this. Curtis blows out a long breath. They’re coming perilously close to a conversation they’ve had before—a conversation about Billy’s methods and motives. Billy predicts it and takes evasive action. ‘Get my guys to ask around.’

‘Oh yeah? Just asking?’

‘Just asking,’ Billy says firmly. He’s got that feeling he gets right now like he’s wearing a person-suit, and if he moves wrong the zipper will burst and Curtis will know what he is. ‘I can’t just sit back and watch.’

Curtis still doesn’t look happy about it, but Billy is an expert in getting what he wants. They stand there in the middle of the room, digesting the conversation. Then Curtis sighs.

‘Sure. Yeah. Better you than the cops.’

‘I’m better,’ says Billy, knowing it. ‘Hey, and I’m less of an asshole.’

‘Always appreciate your support, Bill,’ Curtis tells him with unashamedly weaponised sincerity. Curtis is gently keeping Billy in line, which means he cares; an interesting feeling to be on the receiving end of.

‘Let’s do lunch,’ Billy suggests. He feels unusually magnanimous today, a feeling which he is telling himself is not, in fact, misplaced guilt. No, he decides that he just wants to treat Curtis.

‘Do lunch?’ Curtis says, amused. ‘Like rich white ladies?’

‘Hey man, if you don’t like mimosas than that’s your loss.’

‘I can hold my mimosas,’ Curtis says.

I’m buying,’ Billy tells him, and he feels so good about how the day is going that he decides to let Curtis choose where to eat.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Your pick. We can order, I’ll show you around.’

‘Dynamite rolls,’ Curtis groans. ‘Haven’t had sushi in years.’ He names a place which Billy has never heard of and, Billy’s assistant reports after a recon phone call, doesn’t deliver.

They walk outside into a crisp early afternoon, the sky very blue and the air fresh. It’s cold enough that for once Billy can’t smell the garbage standing out ready for collection. Billy doesn’t bring his driver, and he drives them there and back himself, enjoying the car.

Then they eat in the boardroom, because the whole wall is a bright expanse of glass and Billy is tired, so tired of winter. The sushi is excellent and the company is better. Sometimes Billy just likes to kick it with a guy who knows him really well, and doesn’t work for him. Sometimes it’s a good reminder that, whenever the burden of command is lying heavily on his shoulders, there were shitty things about being deployed. And that Curt was one of the guys who made everything a little less shitty.

At the office, everything is functioning with miraculous efficiency, and Billy can enjoy taking Curtis around the new gym, showing him the new training protocols. Showing off, just a little, just for fun. Curtis always makes all the right noises. That’s why Billy always liked him; he knows his shit.

It’s so much like old times that Billy can almost forget that he’s not the man Curtis used to know any more.

* * *

It’s a Wednesday, so after work Frank drives his battered truck over to the run down old church where Curtis holds his sessions with veterans. It’s the kind of place that smells institutionally familiar. The group meets in the basement, in a bland and wipe-clean room that smells faintly of ancient cigarette smoke. The walls are scarred with a palimpsest of staple and thumb tack holes. There are notices for choirs and AA and pregnancy support groups on the walls. Frank finds the whole thing oddly comforting; or maybe it’s just that Curtis is here, stacking chairs and being the bedrock of every community he fetches up in, as usual.

‘Hey,’ Frank says quietly, sidling in. Nobody else is left except Curtis, but Frank always worries that he’ll be recognised here. He slides his copy of _Wuthering Heights_ out of his hoodie.

‘What did you think?’ asks Curtis, skipping pleasantries. Frank snorts.

‘Dramatic,’ he says. ‘Where were those kids’ parents?’

‘Dead, I think. Haven’t read it in a while.’

‘It wasn’t bad,’ Frank says, trying to be positive.

‘I know how to take a hint,’ Curtis tells him. ‘Hold on.’ He goes over to his backpack, shoved under the side table. Frank watches the way he bends his good knee, almost getting into a pistol squat with his prosthetic out in front of him, out the way. He rummages, and comes out with a slim, green paperback. Nineteen eighties mass market. Frank reaches for it and turns it the right way up.

‘ _Cancer Ward_ ,’ he reads. ‘Sounds fun.’ He likes to grouse as though Curt’s his high school English teacher, but he’s come to enjoy his assignments. Curtis isn’t wrong: the perspective-taking that comes with reading gets Frank out of his head, if only for half an hour at a time.

‘You’ll love it,’ Curtis says. ‘It’s miserable and Soviet.’ Curt’s ragging on him, but it doesn’t sound like his heart’s in it today.

‘Rough session?’ Frank asks, hearing the gruffness in his own voice.

‘Yeah. Rough week.’

‘Sorry.’ Frank clears his throat and wets his lower lip with his tongue. ‘’S good work you’re doing here, Curt.’

‘Someone’s gotta do it,’ Curtis says, rallying. His chin comes up defiantly. ‘It’s not like these guys have anyone else that understands.’

‘Always fixing people up.’

‘Old habits die hard,’ Curtis says. ‘Have you thought any more about—’

‘I’m not gonna do it, Curt,’ says Frank, his face immediately hot with embarrassment. ‘I don’t wanna sit in here like an asshole and pretend I have something to say. Wallowing and shit.’ He snorts, hating the idea. ‘I’d rather be dead.’

Curtis’ face hardens into anger.

‘Yeah? You think that’s better? You’re lucky you got the choice, man. Don’t forget that.’

**iv.**

Frank’s momentum is slowing down. He’s been tearing down this section of wall for hours, dust gathering in his eyes. Prickling and itching from sweat, stomach growling. It’s the latter that tells him it's lunchtime. He grunts out a final, vicious swing and drops his hammer to the floor. There’s a ham and provolone sandwich calling his name. He bends and grabs it, getting ready to disappear up to the roof and let the idiots have the rest of the building site. Get a little space, a little air.

It’s hardly in his nature to loiter and eavesdrop, but as he heads towards the stairs he overhears the word ‘veteran’ and comes to a slow, discreet halt behind a pillar. Castiglione is a stupid alias, but it’s worked for him so far. He wants to know if anyone’s caught on so he can get the hell out of dodge.

He stills and concentrates, so the voices refocus and he can hear most of the conversation. It filters through his tinnitus if he works at it.

‘... anyway, that’s what I heard.’

‘Jesus.’ Someone else coughs and Frank misses a few words. ‘... and just kills them?’

‘Yeah, that’s his thing. So they say it’s probably a serial killer.’

‘That ain’t right. They fought for America.’ Earnest, protesting; that was the new kid, Donnie.

‘Just telling you what I heard, man.’

‘Shit. The government should take care of them. Make sure they have somewhere to live.’

They dissipate back to work, and Frank ghosts away from behind the pillar and heads up the stairs. He pulls out his phone before he even touches his sandwich and searches the keywords: veterans, serial killer, nyc. It’s top of the page, right there. Frank stares at it, thinking about how Curtis had snapped at him two days ago. How uncharacteristically abrasive he’d been, without the usual banter to break up the life lessons. He wonders if they’d been Curtis’ guys. Although, Curtis would be just as broken up about it if he’d never met them.

It’s Friday. Curtis has a good office job, so maybe he gets beers after work. On the off chance that he doesn’t, Frank texts.

_i saw on the news_

He sends it and realises it’s inadequate. He opens another blank text.

_could come over after work if you need anything_

Frank’s lunch break is almost over by the time Curtis responds. So nearly over that Frank is beginning to worry that he’s pissed Curtis off for real this time. But Curt’s name pops up with the little envelope, and Frank thumbs it open.

_I could use some company for sure. And a beer._

So for once Frank downs tools at five with everyone else, and swings by his place for a shower and the beer in his fridge. He puts Neosporin on a couple of raw spots on his palms and pokes the skin flat again, grimly fascinated by how gross his hands are these days. Then he starts off across town, two trains and a long walk. He’s less bothered these days by the likelihood of getting noticed in the street. The beard helps, and he affects a slouch, too. Nothing throws off the silhouette of a military man better than bad posture. He’s in boring clothing, blue jeans and boots and a black coat that fits but doesn’t flatter. Sitting around on the subway is almost relaxing.

Around the corner from Curtis’ apartment, however, Frank begins to get a familiar tingling feeling between his shoulder blades. The well-honed sensation that something isn’t quite right. He likes to listen to the feeling that tells him, figuratively or literally, he might end up with a knife in the back. He slows down, and comes into an empty doorway, where he crouches to retie his perfectly-tied bootlace. At first glance, nothing seems amiss. The street is reasonably sedate. A bus arrives, pauses, leaves. Several floors up, someone slams a sash window closed a little too hard. Frank stands and takes a casual look around before moving on.

The black car. Noticing it is like scratching an itch in the back of his brain. It’s too expensive and carefully discreet not to stick out on this street. There are any number of people who might have one. Frank doesn’t like it. He slopes into Curtis’ building with his hood up and takes the stairs, not wanting to get backed into a corner in an elevator. On Curtis’ floor, a man in a dark grey shirt and an Anvil cap is stationed by the elevator. Another is posted outside Curtis’ door. Frank keeps his chin in his chest and slides his phone out to text Curtis.

_what’s with the goon squad outside your apartment_

Seconds later, Curtis opens his front door and spots Frank by the stairs.

‘Here for the AC issues? Come on in,’ he says, beckoning Frank in, and leaves the door open. Frank comes over, still staring at his phone like everyone else these days, baseball cap low on his brow. The Anvil guy looks at the top of Frank’s head and then falls back into bored disinterest. Curtis is a clever guy.

‘You’re a clever guy,’ says Frank quietly, after he shuts the door behind himself. He trails Curtis into the kitchen. It’s a tiny space. Frank carefully navigates past the fridge so he doesn’t knock off all the magnets.

‘Yeah, well, you’re not exactly anonymous,’ says Curtis, going over to his little coffee machine and sliding in a pod. ‘Even with the beard.’ The coffee machine hisses and sputters. ‘Fifty bucks says those guys are reporting everything back to Billy.’

‘Yeah, about that,’ Frank says, taking the mug from Curtis’ hand, burning himself and hurriedly setting it back down. ‘Why are Billy’s men up your ass?’

‘Just a precaution,’ Curtis tells him, using his calm voice. The calm voice never fails to rile Frank up a little bit.

‘A precaution? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Are you in some kind of trouble?’ Curtis holds up a placating hand.

‘I’m not in trouble. I try real hard to stay _out_ of trouble, unlike some people I know.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Curtis pinches the bridge of his nose for a second. ‘Look. Two of the guys who showed up dead came to group. And the third, he knew them.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I, ‘cause it wasn’t peaceful. They were murdered, Frank.’

It’s not new information, yet the anger starts to rise in Frank as it so often does. He balls his fists and plants his knuckles on the counter, takes a long breath.

‘Who?’

‘I wish I knew. Three of them, all male, all over forty, all homeless. Sleeping on people’s couches, the odd night on a park bench, you know. Group was pretty much the only time they got to talk to anyone. They came for the coffee, the company. I made sure they got fed.’

‘Shit.’ Frank can see the vulnerability. Socially isolated, moving from place to place, bodies beaten down from years of service. Easy pickings. ‘Billy thinks you’re in danger?’

‘Nah. He’s just fronting. You know how he gets.’

‘Two guys outside your apartment’s fronting?’

Curtis shrugged. ‘He’s looking into the murders. He’s looking out for me. Even if he’s a little intense about it.’

‘When were you gonna call me about it?’ Frank asks, hurt. He picks up his coffee and blows on it, telling himself he isn’t going to take it out on Curtis. He’s not jealous that Curtis and Billy hang out a lot now. They’re allowed to be friends.

‘I wasn’t, Frank,’ says Curtis. ‘Officially, you’re dead. You should stay that way.’

‘Fuck that.’

‘Fate gave you a gift. You want the cops back on you? The feds? Live your life, man.’

‘I don’t have a life,’ says Frank. It just slips out. He immediately wishes he could stuff the words back into his mouth. Curtis leans his hip against the counter and takes the weight off his leg. He eyeballs Frank like he’s weighing and measuring him.

‘Maybe you should think about making one,’ he says. ‘And you can start with leaving this alone.’

‘I’m not leaving it alone, Curt, some psycho could be out there, taking out your guys one by one. Saving you for last.’

‘I have a job, a car and neighbours who know me,’ says Curtis. ‘Ain’t nobody about to snatch _me_ off a park bench. If this guy’s picking off the easy targets, I’m just about last on his list.’

‘Let me look into it. Many hands, that’s what they say, right?’ Sometimes, being reasonable wins Curtis over where forcefulness fails.

‘Billy’s got it under control. Keep your head down and don’t let his guys recognise you.’

‘I’m not that stupid.’

‘He’ll be showing up at your apartment, giving you the puppy eyes,’ Curtis continues, and Frank can see the amusing side. Billy always did follow Frank around like that, demanding attention.

‘I could ask around,’ says Frank, and Curtis raises an eyebrow at him.

‘Let Billy do his thing, okay?’ Curtis is holding his gaze mercilessly. Frank cracks first, and looks away. ‘Frank? Promise me you’ll drop this.’

‘Can’t let you get hurt, Curt,’ Frank says. His throat aches.

‘I’m keeping your secret for you,’ Curtis says, in a low blow. ‘Pay it back and make my life easier by staying out of trouble. Lower my stress levels, man. High blood pressure kills.’

Caught over a barrel, Frank sighs. He hedges, ‘I’m gonna go crazy worrying about this shit. Keep me posted on what Billy turns up.’ It’s not a promise, he tells himself. He hasn’t made a promise.

‘I’ll call you,’ says Curtis.

**v.**

Billy turns his collar up against the wind. It’s biting today, whipping off the sea and across the abandoned lot, where weeds are breaking through the concrete and there’s nobody to be seen. It’s a shitty part of town and he wants to get this over with, before some loser tries to break into his car. Maybe he should have picked a subtler option, but fuck it. If he has to be on the hook to Rawlins, he might as well make the experience as pleasant as it can be.

Rawlins is already here, standing in the entrance of the old factory out of the cold. He doesn’t move or raise a hand in greeting as Billy approaches; just watches him silently, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Man to man, Billy knows it’s a nice fucking coat. He just wishes it didn’t look so much like his own. Rawlins has a cold, flat stare, made reptilian by his glassy ruined eye. Although Billy works with some messed-up, cold-blooded dudes, Rawlins is just about the creepiest person he knows. It’s a miserable day, though, so although being near Rawlins makes Billy’s skin crawl he tucks himself into the alcove with the guy.

‘Well?’ says Rawlins, and Billy raises his eyebrows.

‘Short on pleasantries today?’

‘I didn’t come here for pleasantries, Russo. What do you have for me?’

‘Like I told you on the phone, not much. I’m working on it. I’ll let you know when I have something. No need to drag me out here because you’re getting twitchy over your _pet project_.’

‘I’ll do whatever I damn well please, and you’ll meet me wherever I choose. Do I have to remind you what’s on the line here?’

‘I’m not really bothered,’ says Billy, trying not to sound as snappish as he feels. ‘This is your problem, not mine.’

‘I can make it your problem very easily,’ says Rawlins. His mouth twists. ‘You’re not immune.’

‘Immune from what?’

‘From whatever I choose to do to you if you fail,’ Rawlins says. Rawlins is connected and this stuff is coming down from on high. He doesn’t make empty threats now any more than he used to back in Afghanistan, although much like Billy he’s acquired some polish in the years since. Abruptly Billy feels bored, so bored of the ludicrous drama that Rawlins inflicts on him every time he calls Billy’s burner phone. He sounds like a canned TV drama. Billy hates it; it’s tacky. Showboating. He wants out of here now, back to his car and then back to his office. So he plays ball.

‘Fine. My guys are on it. We’ve set a trap and baited it. Nothing yet, but I’ve got ears to the ground anywhere the target might break cover. The minute one of my guys hears someone, they call me.’

‘You’re supposed to be the best.’

‘Yeah, well, this shit takes time.’

‘I’ll call you,’ says Rawlins, walking away. ‘Be sure you pick up.’

‘Asshole,’ says Billy into the collar of his coat. He stalks back to his car, miraculously unmolested right where he parked it.

* * *

Frank approaches the dilapidated strip mall with care, noting the presence of a single, outdated security camera. It looks deserted, the stores sleeping under metal shutters and no lights on. He knows better. His target is the middle unit. It’s got a shitty plastic sign advertising payday loans. Skirting the camera, which is probably busted anyway, he leans down and gets his fingers under the bottom of the shutter. It squeals when he pulls it up. Game time.

The thing is, Frank’s connected. He’s knocked around the criminal elements of New York City too long not to know all the players. Contrary to public expectation he never killed indiscriminately, and there are plenty of pond slime in this particular pond that weren’t worth his time. Critical to the overall ecosystem but not exactly big fish. Whenever he needed information, he’d go and drag a net through the bottom feeders and see what they could tell him. Tonight: Larry, a low-level dealer. Mostly pills to college kids, a little coke here and there.

When Frank slams home the shutter, he hears a scrabbling from behind a door. Like a little rat, he thinks, sliding off the safety on his pistol and holding it low. He kicks through the cheap door like paper and there’s Larry, twitching and squeaking behind his desk in the windowless office.

‘Evening,’ says Frank, reaching down and hauling him out of his hiding place. He kicks Larry into the desk chair.

‘Frank Castle?’ Larry asks. He gives a nervous laugh. It sounds about as attractive as he looks. Larry’s a guy who spends too much time sampling his own product to be trusted with moving up the chain. He’s scrawny and his skin is as pimply as a teenager’s. Frank would happily chuck him in the river and walk away feeling like the city was a better place. But tonight Larry gets a pass, because Frank actually needs him.

‘Yeah. Surprise.’

‘I thought you were dead!’

‘Sorry to disappoint.’

‘I’m not disappointed,’ Larry says quickly. ‘Good for you, being alive. Stick it to the man.’

‘Right.’ Frank sits on the edge of the desk, just far enough away that Larry won’t get it into his head to make a lunge for the gun.

‘Alive,’ says Larry. ‘Wow. Really makes you think about what’s important in life.’ He shows his teeth in a rodent smile.

‘Yeah, I’d say that’s a good idea for you, too.’ He plants his foot on the seat of Larry’s chair, right between his thighs. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘You think I know people?’

‘I think you know a lot of people. People like the guy I’m trying to locate.’

‘I ain’t looking for trouble, man.’

‘Great,’ Frank says flatly. ‘I’m looking for a murderer.’

Larry’s brow creases. ‘Don’t know any,’ he says. Frank kicks his chair over backwards.

‘Let’s jog your memory.’ He stands up, over the chair, and looks down at Larry sprawled on the floor. ‘Someone’s been killing veterans.’

‘I saw on the news but I don’t know who,’ Larry says, all in one breath. ‘I don’t know, man, I don’t know. I’m not connected, I move some pain pills sometimes down by the VA but murders, that ain’t me.’

‘None of your business, that it?’

‘Yeah! Yeah, that’s it.’

‘None of your business if someone gets killed quick, you kill ‘em slow with pain pills.’

‘I’m meeting a need,’ Larry says. ‘You know these guys ain’t getting what they need from the VA. If someone like me shows up with some oxys, some Dilaudid, that’s just business.’

‘Who else is selling down there?’ Frank figures it’s like this: Larry will know some guys and Frank will go and shake them down for who they know. And a few names will come up more than once, and he’ll go talk to _them_. And eventually the overlap between criminals who hang around near veterans, and the bosses of those criminals, will get bigger and bigger… and then Frank will have his guy. That’s pretty much always how it works. You use the little guys to get to the bigger guys, and the higher up the chain you go, the more they know. If he has to make piñatas out of a dozen scumbags tonight to get a couple names, that’s an okay trade.

It’s not like he has anything else to go on.

Larry squawks, eventually, and Frank slaps him about a couple times just for good measure and leaves him lying on the floor of his office, nose bleeding all over his polyester shirt.

He heads across town, warm with the buzzing, low-grade excitement that he always gets when he’s in the zone. He shakes down the pathetic remnants of some Colombian dealers in the back of a convenience store. They tell him about a guy they know who does a little wetwork on the side, but when Frank shows up he’s nowhere to be found; a dead end. Crossing back through Queens he looks in on Turk and roughs him up a bit, but Turk’s mostly selling arms to narcos these days and he doesn’t have anything useful to share.

Two in the morning he flips the table at a game at a private poker tournament held in the back of a mahjong bar. Nothing but names he’s already heard, and two more that he knows are dead. Motherfuckers trying to fob him off with old news. He dumpsters their security guy just out of spite and heads home, no closer to anything useful than he was eight hours earlier.

Whatever’s going on here, nobody’s talking. It’s slick, it’s professional and it’s anonymous.

**vi.**

Curtis gives Frank a look when he shows up, sleepless and bruised, outside Curt’s apartment building. A look with a capital L: an I-know-what-you’ve-been-doing look. Curtis is getting home from a shift; he looks a little tired himself, a little careworn.

‘Kinda feels like a walk of shame now,’ Frank tells Curtis.

‘Shame’s your choice, man,’ Curtis replies. ‘Get inside. I’ll make coffee.’

‘Still got a security detail up there, Curt?’

‘Had Billy send them away.’

Frank opens his mouth to ask if it’s smart. The determined set of Curtis’ jaw makes him think it’s a bad idea. ‘Yeah?’ he asks instead.

‘Yeah. Anyone looking for me can come looking, see how far they get.’ Curtis unlocks his door and Frank steps in, immediately bending to untie his boots and set them neatly on the boot rack. Curtis’ home is an extension of himself: unpretentious, comfortable, appealing. He’s got shelves full of books about history and cooking and apartment gardening and philosophy. An eclectic selection of art and prints on his walls. And everything shipshape and squared away, because Curtis takes obvious pride in living well, living in the right way.

Frank eases himself down into one of the two armchairs with a sigh. In the kitchen, Curtis rattles around, and there’s the sound of an electric kettle and the pop and hiss of a coffee machine. One of the units with the little pods. At group, Curtis makes instant coffee in batches and more besides: sandwiches, soup, ramen, granola bars. Frank likes that at home he has the good stuff. If Curtis didn’t have a coffee machine, Frank would probably buy him one.

He tells Curtis as much when he comes back from the kitchen with a mug of coffee for Frank, and a tea for himself. Curtis snorts.

‘Hey, I got a salary,’ he says, ‘I’m not above luxuries.’ He settles into his own chair.

Frank leans back and puts his feet up on the antique wooden trunk that serves as Curtis’ coffee table. He’s mimicking Curtis, whose socked foot is already kicked up comfortably. Curtis is cupping his tea mug in his hands, looking like the king of his one-bedroom castle. So calm and in control that Frank doesn’t want to break the silence by saying what he needs to say.

‘So,’ says Curtis.

‘So,’ says Frank back. He gathers up his balls. ‘Took a look around, asked some questions.’

‘That’s crazy, Frank,’ Curtis says neutrally, ‘I could have sworn you weren’t gonna do that.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Talked about it and everything.’

‘I can’t just sit around and be useless. You know that.’ Frank looks into his coffee. ‘This is what I’m good at.’

‘You could be good at a lot of things.’

‘I ain’t got your talents, Curt.’

‘Talent is a pursued interest. Anything that you're willing to practice, you can do.’

‘Damn,’ says Frank, impressed. He turns that over in his mind. ‘That Marcus Aurelius?’ Curtis had loaned him that book, early on.

‘Bob Ross,’ Curtis tells him. ‘You know before he was a painter, he was in the Army?’

‘So what happened?’

‘He decided he didn’t want that life any more.’

‘I don’t want this, Curt.’

Curtis doesn’t say anything. He swirls the teabag around in his tea, then wraps the paper tag around the mug handle and takes a sip. Frank lets his gaze wander along the bookshelves. There’s Curtis’ pistol, slid neatly between the edge of the bookshelf and a thick volume about New York history. Not visible unless you’re looking for it but close at hand. The kind of hiding place Frank would choose himself. Curtis has chosen to keep up his license and protect himself. Hasn’t given it all up.

Frank puts down his mug and scrubs the heels of his hands into his tired eyes.

‘So you took a look around,’ Curtis prompts.

Frank makes a helpless hand gesture. ‘Nothing,’ he says, inarticulately. ‘Shook down some scumbags but nobody’s heard anything.’

‘You can’t beat on everyone in the city in one night. So some weed dealers didn’t know anything. Doesn’t mean there’s nothing to know.’

‘Doesn’t work like that. It’s not random.’ Frank sketches it out for Curtis. By the end, Curtis is frowning as much as Frank was.

‘Someone out there has the power to cover it up? Is that where you’re going?’

‘Sure,’ says Frank. ‘Seen it before.’

‘I buy it. It’s not like all these guys just got unlucky. It’s a pattern.’

‘Pattern means strategy.’

‘Or serial killer.’

Frank snorts. ‘Three in a week? In the middle of New York?’

‘Fine, it’s targeted. Who’s calling the shots?’

All Frank can do is shrug. ‘I did what I know, man, I asked around. I got nothing. What’s Billy got?’

‘Nothing. Nothing he’s sharing with me, anyway.’

‘Nothing he’s sharing with you,’ Frank repeats slowly. Because—

‘Oh _hell_ no,’ says Curtis.

‘But—’

‘You’re _dead_.’

‘I can come back to life if I gotta.’

‘You got a second chance,’ Curtis protests. ‘We both did. And Billy, too.’

‘Hell of a second chance for Billy. He’s living like a king.’

Curtis gives a wry laugh. ‘If it’s designer suits you wanted, Billy Russo would have given you a job in a heartbeat.’

They both smile, Frank imagining himself living Billy’s life, hating it.

‘Maybe not a king,’ he concedes. ‘You’re doing pretty well for yourself too.’

‘So could you.’

‘I can’t.’ Frank can’t explain why he can’t. It hangs in the air like a fart in an elevator. They both know what it is but neither of them want to address it. Frank picks at a fraying spot in his jeans, teasing the indigo into little white strands. ‘I ain’t made for it,’ he says at last. When he casts a look at Curtis out of the corner of his eye, Curtis is watching him calmly over his tea mug. Observing, not pitying.

‘If I tell you to come to group again you’ll blow me off, ‘cause you’re an asshole,’ he says, and smiles.

‘Guess that’s about right.’

‘And if I tell you not to talk to Billy…’

Frank shrugs. ‘I wanna find this asshole,’ he says. ‘Take him out, before he hurts anybody else. Or you.’

Curtis rubs the back of his head absently for a minute. ‘I don’t like this, man,’ he says.

If Frank’s honest, he doesn’t much like it either. He’s more than happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Sure, he misses Billy; misses him like a toothache, sometimes. But maybe other people’s second chances should be left well alone, without Frank blundering in to ruin them like he ruins everything.

‘Got his number?’ Frank asks, and that’s that.

* * *

‘I told you not to call me here,’ says Billy, suddenly feeling sick. He presses the button under his desk that subtly and gracefully polarises his office windows. Realistically it doesn’t protect him from anything, but he feels better for doing it. He stands up so he can walk off his irritation before it can be heard in his voice.

‘You’re not in a position to tell me anything,’ says Rawlins, slimy as always. At least down the other end of the phone Rawlins can’t see Billy sneering at him.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know what’s taking so long. I’m not hearing the news I want to hear.’ The man’s incapable of being clear. These fucking spooks, with their plans within plans. Billy hates it; hates the deception, hates not knowing everything, and hates, most of all, that at any time Rawlins can drop him in the shit by blowing open everything that happened in the Middle East.

Yeah, Billy’s hands are dirty. So are everyone else’s. But somehow Rawlins, who masterminded everything, gets to weasel out of consequences. That asshole gets medals and commendations. He’ll retire a legend and write a fucking book. Billy gets to jump when Rawlins snaps his fingers. If he doesn’t, he loses everything.

Billy thinks all this, but what he says is, ‘This would be easier if I knew who I was looking for.’

‘That’s classified, Russo. This isn’t your little company. You don’t get to know everything.’

‘You’ve trusted me with classified intel before.’

‘Fragments,’ says Rawlins dismissively.

‘It’s just a name. What am I going to fuck up with a name?’

‘It’s a sensitive situation. There are currents—at state, at DHS. I have an SAC sniffing around. This name in the wrong place would be a disaster.’

‘Sounds like you need this resolved pronto,’ says Billy, trying not to let urgency creep into his voice. Never let them know how bad you want it.

‘I’m spinning a lot of plates right now. There are forces at play that you will never understand.’

‘Yeah,’ says Billy, hating him. ‘I get that. You gave me a job to do. Let me do it right.’ He pauses. ‘Remove one of those plates for you.’ It's like seduction, Billy thinks to himself. The thought doesn't improve his mood. He waits through Rawlins' pause, almost hearing the wheels turn.

'I can have you deleted, Russo,' says Rawlins in that creepy, insinuating voice. 'Anywhere you go, anywhere in the world. I can reach out and end you.'

'I believe it,' Billy lies.

'You'd better. You'd better brand it on your soul in letters of fire. What I'm about to tell you, you tell nobody else.' Rawlins waits, probably for dramatic effect, and Billy can hear his breathing down the line.

 _Glad one of us is getting off on this,_ thinks Billy.

'Frank Castle.' Rawlins says it slowly and clearly, enunciating every consonant. 'He's alive.'

Billy sits down in his chair. It's not surprise he's feeling, but inevitability. Frank. He covers his hand with his mouth, stuffing the name back in.

‘I’ll make it happen,’ he says eventually, and he’s sure he’s not imagining the way Rawlins’ breath catches again, wet and eager.

**vii.**

The Lighthouse diner is a real old greasy spoon, the type of place Frank loves. So the neon lights out front are a little busted and some of the booths look shabby. The food’s still good. He forces himself to eat a bacon and onion omelette and drink a couple cups of coffee before he gets down to the real business. Never go into an engagement on an empty stomach, that’s what he was told.

‘Ma’am?’ he says politely, catching the waitress on her way past. ‘You got a landline here I can use?’

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘You need quarters?’

Frank nods and hands over a five, which she takes to the till and splits into small change for him.

‘Appreciate it,’ he tells her, and leaves a good tip. It’s just after lunchtime and folks are clearing out, drifting back to work. Frank lingers over his second cup of coffee until the dregs are cold, and then he holds a few coins loosely in his right hand and goes to the phone. It’s tucked in a corner and has a green privacy hood. He gets in there halfway, turned so nobody can sneak up on him. Curtis had given him Billy’s number and Frank had memorised it out of pure habit before burning the Post-It.

Tucking the phone under his chin, Frank feeds in a coin and dials. A little curl of anxiety is making his lunch sit heavy in his stomach. The phone rings and Frank tries to frame what he wants to say. It rings, four, five, Frank counts them off, imagining how he’d feel if Maria called him out of the blue. Eight, nine, and Frank’s hand is sweating on the receiver, and just as he thinks he should hang up and try again another day, Billy answers.

‘Russo.’ Frank’s heart stutters through its next beat. Strange that Billy should choose to answer his phone like that—after all, he’s a civilian now. But then, he’s picked his career according to his strengths, so maybe it’s not so strange. All these thoughts very quickly, and before he can speak Billy says, annoyed, ‘Hello?’

‘Bill,’ Frank says, his voice rough. ‘It’s me.’

He distinctly hears Billy’s breath catch down the line and he holds his own in sympathy. Then Billy says crisply, ‘Well, fuck you, Frankie.’

‘Yeah.’ _I deserved that,_ thinks Frank.

‘Where are you?’

‘Diner. Bushwick.’

‘Meet me at Hurricane Point. Eighteen hundred.’ Billy hung up, leaving Frank’s head spinning and his hand fumbling the receiver back on the hook.

It’s not even two yet. To blow off some steam, he looks in on a local moron who flips stolen merchandise. The guy doesn’t really have any information but he’s ready to fight, and Frank beats out some anxiety by whaling on him until he gives up. At the first bright flare of pain in his right fist he starts feeling better. Later, he’ll think on that and wonder if there really is something wrong with him. If it’s normal. But for now there’s just the satisfying linear progression of a fight, and the aftermath, a long, relieved exhale.

Afterwards, Frank washes his hands off in a cracked sink in a public restroom. Under the yellowy lights he looks tired and a little older than his years. At least he shaved this morning. He examines a broken blood vessel in his left eye, and tugs at his t-shirt where it’s gotten stretched out in the fight. He tucks it in, then untucks it again. Then he tries tucking just the front, like he sees the hipster kids do. He looks like an asshole. In the end he gives up and does his coat up over the whole mess.

Well. It’s not like Billy hasn’t seen him a mess before.

It’s a long walk out to the point. Frank hasn’t been there for years. He’s forgotten what a strange, bleak, stony little place it is, crashing with waves and empty on a windswept September evening. The light is drawing down into a muted grey and the spray coming off the water is viciously cold. Frank picks his way down the rocks, instinctively knowing why Billy picked the place. He tucks himself in behind the sea wall and flips his coat collar up against the cold. He’s a little early but he knows Billy will know where to find him.

He waits, watching the boats go past. There are a lot of sirens this evening, and each time he hears one his hackles stand up. That’s happened ever since the thing with Maria and the kids. Curtis said that he probably has some trauma. That when he was lying there, headshot, he probably heard the sirens and now his brain won’t let him forget.

‘Back from the dead, huh?’

Frank startles. Billy’s standing there, a few feet away, his hands in his coat pockets. His head’s tilted in that way he has, curious, flirtatious. He looks good.

‘You look good,’ Frank tells him stupidly.

‘You look like hell.’ Billy picks his way over the rocks. He gets a couple of feet closer. Frank wants to reach for him. If he tried it, Billy might let him, or he might slip away like a long, skittish wildcat. Never knew with him.

‘Been a rough year,’ Frank says. His hand comes up to touch the raised scar that sits on the edge of his parietal ridge.

‘So,’ Billy says carefully, precisely. ‘To what do I owe the resurrection?’ His eyes have the bright alertness of a man poised to react, and Frank knows he always did like a hidden knife. All the same, Frank takes a step closer.

‘Maybe I missed you, Bill.’

Billy’s laugh is as bright as his eyes. ‘That so.’

Frank shrugs. ‘Yeah.’ He sticks his hands back in his pockets and glances out over the water. Staring at Billy for too long gives him a feeling something like vertigo. Billy’s face and suit are overlaid by his fatigues and regulation haircut: Frank sees him now and then at the same time.

He feels Billy’s gaze on him.

‘You’ve been watching the news, then?’

‘I talked to Curtis about it.’

Billy’s face goes very flat. ‘Hang out with him a lot, do you, Frank?’

‘Sometimes. Look, this isn’t personal. I didn’t want to drag you into my bullshit.’ Frank gestures to Billy’s suit. ‘You made it, Bill. You’re doing well for yourself. Me, not so much.’

‘What do you and Curtis talk about on your brunch dates?’ Billy bites off the hard consonants: _brunch dates, you motherfucker_.

‘You,’ Frank says, tongue in cheek, and to his surprise it works and Billy gives a mean laugh.

‘You missed me that much?’

Frank wants to say yes immediately. He waits for a few breaths.

‘Yes,’ he says anyway. Billy’s delighted laugh comes back and he runs the tips of his fingers along the side of his hair, just above his ear. Frank wants to do the same. He steps forward.

‘I can guess why you called,’ Billy says. The wind is picking up and it threatens to blow away half of Billy’s words. ‘The hero complex.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Billy cocks his head to one side.

‘If you’re tight with Curtis, I’m guessing he’s got you on the case, too. These murders.’

‘Yeah. Thought we could, you know.’ Frank makes a twirling gesture with his hand. ‘Share information.’

‘Wish I could, Frankie.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is there’s nothing to share.’ Billy shrugs. ‘It’s professional, I’ll say that. I can’t find a goddamn thing.’

‘Fuck.’ Frank balls up his fists in his coat pockets. ‘Me neither,’ he admits. ‘I took a look around, shook down some scumbags.’

‘Yeah. I sent some of my guys over to keep an eye on Curtis.’

Frank snorts with laughter. ‘I heard. Lasted, what—a day? Two?’

‘About that. You know Curtis.’

‘He’s a tough guy, but…’

Billy wets his bottom lip with his tongue. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me, Bill?’

‘You worried? For yourself?’

‘Nah.’

Billy comes a little closer and peers into Frank’s face.

‘You been fighting?’ He clicks his tongue. ‘Bad boy.’

Frank touches his face. ‘I told you. I shook down some guys. It’s nothing.’

Another step and Billy’s within touching distance. Frank still doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. Billy makes the move, reaching for Frank’s face. For a moment it seems like he’s going to cup Frank’s face in his hand, some unusual and unwarranted tenderness. Instead, he runs his thumb under Frank’s slightly puffy left eye and pulls down the lid to inspect the damage.

‘It works for you,’ he says. Then he strikes like a cobra. In a heartbeat, Billy’s mouth is pressed to his. It’s a kiss with history, that’s for goddamn sure. Billy’s hard fingers digging into Frank’s jaw, Frank remembering the space between rib and hip where his hands had always fit. They cling together like that for a minute and then Billy pulls away.

'You missed me,' Frank says, surprised and feeling somehow tender about it. It's a curious thing to feel again. 

'Don't get excited,' Billy says. 'I'm still pissed that you were sneaking around with _Curtis_.'

Frank is about to protest that he never slept with Curtis, but as he opens his mouth he realises that that isn't the point anyway. He steps in towards Billy again. Hazily, he considers the tactical value of kissing Billy until he forgives him. Billy evades him and looks around at the empty beach.

‘Probably shouldn’t be seen together,’ he says heartlessly, as if he knows that Frank would follow him anywhere right now should he suggest it. ‘Got a pen?’

‘What?’

‘A pen, Frankie. Literate people write with them.’

‘What do I need a pen for?’ Frank is distracted by the colour high on Billy’s cheeks, and his proximity.

‘My number.’

‘I can remember it.’

‘Fine.’ Billy rattles it off and Frank repeats it back to him.

‘Got it.’ He was always good at remembering stuff like that.

‘Use a burner,’ Billy tells him.

‘I _know_ , Bill, Christ.’

It’s so desperately like old times that they grin at each other like idiots for a minute.

Then Billy’s off. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he tells Frank over his shoulder, as he leaves Frank alone on the rocky little beach with the sun setting over the water.

**viii.**

Frank can’t go home after that. It’s too weird. He feels wired, or high, or something. On some kind of edge. He looks around for a street sign and pulls up his mental map. There’s a subway station two blocks over and Karen lives along the line. He calls her.

‘Karen Page.’ Her voice goes up a little at the end.

‘Hey, girl,’ he says.

‘Frank! Are you—is everything okay?’

‘Yeah. Listen, I’m near your place. Wanna grab a beer?’

There’s a pause and then Karen, surprised, ‘Sure! Okay! I don’t have anything in the apartment, though.’

‘I can pick something up.’ From where, Frank doesn’t know. It feels strange to socialise again; he realises, belatedly, that he’s put her on the spot. ‘There a liquor store around?’

‘Are you near Mel’s?’

‘Where’s that?’

She gives him the address. It’s a fifteen minute walk. Close enough.

‘I’ll see you soon. Stay out of trouble, Frank.’

Frank laughs and gets walking.

At the store, he ducks through the neon-framed entrance and snags a six pack of beer. It’s a little early to be drinking and he feels like the guy behind the counter’s gearing up to make conversation about it. Frank keeps his head down, pays in cash, and tries not to obviously avoid the security camera. He’s still buzzing from his contact high off Billy. He buzzes all the way to the subway and catches the train. He sits there, playing it back: the way Billy moves, the way he talks, the way he doesn’t seem to have aged at all. If someone had asked him last week if he remembered Billy well he’d have said yes, but God, seeing him again has made him remember how long it had been.

Karen’s apartment is in a nondescript building that’s nicer on the inside than the out. He’s happy about that. Figures that a smart chick like her is doing okay for herself. She buzzes him up straight away. When she opens the door, tall, blonde, poised even in her at-home clothes, Frank feels like everything might be okay. Kissing her on the cheek gives him another little thrill, and he feels like a fucking horndog.

‘It’s been a while,’ she says with a smile that tells him she forgives him for it. She takes the beer from him and puts it on the counter so she can pull two cans out the rings and put the rest in the fridge. Frank hangs up his coat, takes off his shoes: remembers his manners.

‘Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,’ Frank says. ‘Keeping my head down.’

‘Is it crazy that I don’t believe you?’ Karen asks. She sits in the big chair by the window and curls up. Frank takes the couch.

‘That’s the journalist in you, right there,’ he says. He doesn’t mind getting busted by Karen. He opens his beer with a hiss and takes a pull. It’s been a while since he drank. Curtis told him to stay off the hard stuff and he is, but a couple of beers with a friend doesn’t count.

Karen doesn’t say anything. She parts the curtain briefly and looks down into the street, and then they drink in silence for a minute. Way back when she first started getting into her writing, Karen had told him that it was hard to switch off the journalist part of her brain. She called it, ‘a compulsion to narrativise.’ The kind of stuff Curtis would talk about, probably. Frank can almost feel that compulsion now. She’s too unnaturally still and quiet.

‘Ask me, if you want,’ he says. He wants to talk about it.

‘Oh, Frank,’ she says. She leans over and puts her hand on his knee for a second, the only part of him she can reach. ‘I’m covering the story - the serial murders.’

‘Yeah.’ It’s a relief not to have to explain.

‘Keeping your head down means finding out who’s doing it, right?’

‘Right.’ Frank clears his throat. ‘It’s for Curtis, you know, gotta make sure his guys are okay. He worries.’

‘He sounds like good people.’

Frank nods. He doesn’t trust himself to talk about Curtis right now. If he talks about Curtis he’ll talk about Billy. Then he’ll be lost in it, picking through his past life. Dragging Maria and the kids into it. Being the sad mope who can only talk about what’s already happened.

‘So journalists have sources, right?’ he says instead.

Karen laughs. ‘That’s right. At least, we hope we do. Sometimes we do.’

‘You got sources for this thing?’

‘This is the sometimes where we _don’t_ ,’ Karen says wryly. ‘I’ve got police reports, a couple of quotes from people who found the bodies, and a criminal profiler telling me what he thinks the killer is like.’

‘They can tell that?’ Frank asks, intrigued.

Karen reaches over the edge of her chair to a laptop bag and pulls out her computer. She powers it on. ‘You tell me,’ she says, clicking away at the keys. She tucks her hair behind her ears and reads. ‘This is from the email he sent me: _based on preliminary assessment, killer is likely to exhibit some or all of the following traits: middle-aged, male, loner, difficult relationship with father, sadistic attitude towards animals, possibly gay_.’

Frank snorts. ‘You paid him for that?’

‘I didn’t,’ Karen groans, ‘he volunteered his services and my boss loved the idea.’

‘Difficult relationship with father,’ Frank repeats. ‘You gonna print that?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘You got anything useful?’

‘Nothing. Just the facts, and some speculation that I won’t indulge in print—we’re a _reputable_ paper, Frank.’

‘You hear something I can use, you come to me.’ Frank finishes his beer and sets it on the table, on a coaster with a repeating pattern of stylised birds in a circle. ‘Don’t be writing about it where everyone can see. Might draw attention.’

Karen cocks her head to one side. ‘I have a job to do, Frank.’ Her tone is a warning; one that he chooses to heed.

‘Yeah. Me too.’

‘So, I showed you mine. What have you dug up?’ Karen leans forward.

‘Nothing. Okay, not nothing. Too much nothing. Nobody knows anything, nobody’s seen anything, nobody’s talking.’

‘Right!’ Karen says, bursting with it. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence.’

‘If it was just some scumbag, someone would have seen something.’ Frank stares into middle distance, thinking about the playbook. ‘He’d have bought a gun off someone, or someone would have seen him at work.’

‘He’s too good.’

‘Yeah. Not a lot of people got those skills.’

‘I’m not a profiler, but I have a couple of hunches about this guy,’ Karen says slowly. ‘Military, for one.’

Frank is almost ashamed to say it, but he does anyway. ‘Sounds like me.’

‘Sounds like a lot of guys with your background,’ Karen corrects him. She never did like when he got down on himself.

‘I could make a list of ‘em,’ Frank agrees, ‘call around. Except…’ he waves his hand, taking in everything in the room including himself, ‘I’m technically dead.’

‘You should stay that way. Frank, do not get caught sniffing around. Do not get busted.’

‘That’s what Curtis told me. You two been talking or something?’

Karen laughs. ‘I wish we had. Between the two of us we might keep you out of trouble. You could actually enjoy life.’

‘That’s what Curtis said, too. I just wanna keep him safe,’ says Frank. He pounds his fist against his thigh gently in frustration. ‘It’s the last thing.’

‘The last thing?’ Karen’s voice is worried.

‘Before I can—you know—get on with some kind of a life.’ He looks at the cluster of cans they’ve got on the table and laughs. ‘Jesus. Beer’s making me stupid tonight.’

‘It’s okay. These murders have got everyone a little spooked.’

Frank scrubs his hands over his face. ‘Just needed to lay it out for someone.’

‘Get some perspective. I get it.’

Instead of answering, Frank makes himself useful. He scoops up the cans from the coffee table and takes them to the kitchen. Poking around, he finds the plastic bin under the sink with some Coke cans in and drops the beer cans in with them. The clock on the stove glows green and it catches his eye.

‘Christ, it’s nearly midnight.’ Frank hasn’t realised how tired he’s become. He took the day from work and his body’s telling him he should have spent it sleeping.

‘If you wanted to stay,’ Karen begins interrogatively. She uncurls from her chair and stretches, stands. She comes over into the kitchen, tucking her hair behind her ears to look up at him. Frank wants to touch her, to let the filament of attraction that’s always run between them solidify into reality. He thinks she’d let him. He knows it. Knowing it is the curse. Staying away from her, keeping her a friend and confidante, might keep her alive one day. She doesn’t deserve to get tied up in his life any further. Nobody deserves that.

‘I think I fit on the couch,’ he says eventually, breaking the silence.

‘Oh—oh yeah,’ says Karen. ‘It pulls out. I’ll get you a pillow.’ She hides her disappointment almost entirely, and Frank feels like an insensitive ass, just like Maria told him he could be. He doesn’t insult her by giving her a chaste goodnight kiss. He just gets his ass into bed, shucking his jeans off under the blanket she’s brought him after he hears her bedroom door close.

It feels like no time elapses between Frank lying down on the couch and Karen’s voice waking him up.

‘Frank,’ she’s saying softly. Frank peels his eyes all the way open and focuses in on the mug of coffee steaming gently on the coffee table. Then sound breaks in: Karen turns up the TV and says, ‘look.’

The morning news. Six fifteen, according to the little blue clock on the screen. It’s two bodies this time, less than half a mile apart. Photos flash up: the men, younger, brighter, uniformed.

‘Jesus Christ, Karen,’ he says, more to be saying anything at all than because he expects an answer.

‘Escalation,’ Karen says. She covers a justice beat; she would know. ‘Frank, I need to get to work. They’ll want me on this.’ It’s her story, has been so far. She’s already grabbing her handbag, finding her cellphone, shoes, scarf.

Frank rolls to an upright position on the couch and picks up the coffee mug. ‘I’ll get outta your way.’

‘Finish your coffee,’ she tells him. Her phone starts ringing. ‘The door will lock behind you—you need a shower?’

‘No,’ Frank says, still staring at the TV. ‘I don’t need anything.’

**ix.**

Billy storms into the shitty little room in the church basement just in time to hear Curtis say, 'Okay, everyone, I'll see you all next week. Stay safe out there.' The serenity in his voice stokes Billy's anger.

Curtis sees him and comes to intercept him, looking awkward on his plastic leg when he's moving fast. He takes Billy by the arm and half-turns him so that they're standing near the wall, well away from the cluster of mostly men filing out the room or hovering by the coffee.

'Got something to say to me, Bill?' Curtis asks with deceptive mildness. He's speaking softly but his grip on Billy's arm is undeniable.

'You knew.'

'What did I know?'

Billy looks over his shoulder at the guys pouring coffee. There's a spirited discussion about Starbucks going on. Nobody's paying attention.

'Frank,' he says quietly.

'I hear he goes by a different name these days,' Curtis says. 'Keeps a low profile. Doesn't entertain.'

'Yeah? You hear that? When was I gonna hear it?'

Curtis shrugs. 'He didn’t exactly seem happy to come to me, at first. But I guess…' he gestures around the room.

'You should have told me. I could have helped him - money, papers, work. Whatever he needed.' Billy almost shakes with futile anger, rolling out in his mind the alternate reality where he got Frank the hell out of the country before Rawlins called with his insinuating voice and his manila folders full of leverage.

'I keep people's secrets, even when I don't think it's in their best interests.'

'I used to mean something to him.'

Incredibly, Curtis laughs. 'Man, you're really hung up on your ex, huh?'

When Billy had been sent home from his second foster family, or maybe his third, one of the group home workers had told him he’d never be loved when he had the devil in him. Billy had liked the sound of that, the strength of it. The devil in him. The devil in me. The devil never had quite left him since, which suited him fine as Billy never had felt the need to be loved, anyhow.

Respected, sure. And Billy is pretty convinced that Curtis respects him, which is why he stuffs the devil back down deep inside of him and doesn’t knock Curtis’ fake leg out from under him.

‘He’s not my ex,’ Billy says instead. ‘He _used_ to be my friend.’

‘Still is your friend, same as me,’ says Curtis in that calm voice again. He eases up on Billy's arm and squeezes his shoulder instead. Somehow, Billy can breathe a little easier. It's that way Curtis has about him.

‘We went to his grave,’ Billy says, feeling like a rube. He expects Curtis to laugh again, but his face draws into a grimace.

‘Yeah, well,’ he says. ‘Give it time.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Curtis’ thumb moves on Billy’s shoulder, but he doesn’t pull his hand away yet. He says, very quietly, like he’s delivering the news that Billy’s dog is dying, ‘You know he’s not the kind of guy who retires.’

Even Billy isn’t cold-blooded enough to chat over coffee after that little revelation. (When Billy thinks about it much, much later, he realises it’s not really a revelation at all. Frank should’ve quit when Billy did. Left the Middle East, left the Corps, found something better to do with his time.)

He slopes out of the building, face tucked into his upturned collar just on the off-chance anyone recognises him here. He flings himself behind the wheel of his car and pulls his phone out of his coat pocket. It’s been vibrating at him, on and off. He swipes away the emails, the missed meeting, the calls from his assistant: all boring, all unimportant. There’s an itch under his skin. He wanted to fight Curtis for a minute. He wants to fight Rawlins. He wants to leave his phone in his car and get the hell out of here. He wants his assistant to stop calling him. There’s an invisible leash on him, more than one, and he hates it.

While he slouches in the driver’s seat, watching pedestrians, his phone buzzes again. Caller unknown. Billy picks it up.

‘It’s me.’

‘Calling from the other side.’

‘Real funny, Bill.’ Frank’s voice sounds gravellier for a second. ‘Let’s meet.’ He’s not talking about coffee. Frank never could come straight out with it—want to fuck?

‘Come to my place,’ Billy says.

‘Anvil?’

It would be so easy at Anvil. Billy can get there first, grab a couple of guys and hustle Frank into a secure room before he can cause trouble. Call Rawlins to come sign for his package; job done, problem solved, life goes on. At least until the next time Rawlins wants some dirty work done for the low, low price of a little blackmail. He chews the inside of his cheek for a second.

‘Nah. My house.’ He gives Frank the address and then hangs up immediately before Frank can say anything dumb and ruin the vibe. The mirror in the sun visor is just adequate to check his hair, his teeth, his collar. He grins at himself in the reflection, trying it on like he’s going to try it on with Frank.

There’s a big German engine beating under the hood of his car and he uses it, speeding on the way back to the office, cutting it close when he overtakes. He parks in his space and then switches coats, folding his good one into the trunk with his suit jacket and grabbing a well-worn leather jacket and watch cap from his car. It always pays to have a change of clothes. Free of extra tailoring, he pulls his hat down and slouches out the service exit.

He takes the subway for once, buying a single at the machine and shoving onto the platform with everyone else. It’s uncharacteristic, which is good. His car being at the office is regular, which is also good. If he were Rawlins, he’d have eyes on. Maybe not all the time, but just enough to flag anything unusual. Right now, Billy could be in his office. He could have stepped out for dinner. He could be visiting a different facility in an Anvil vehicle. Or a few blocks away in his apartment. But nobody would expect him to be pushing onto a train with a hundred other sweaty bodies and heading out to a building that wasn’t even purchased in his name.

That’s the thrill of it, he thinks idly as he hangs off a strap and sways with the rhythm of the train. And layered over it, the anticipation of Frank; an evening assignation tacked onto the end of his workday.

He doubles back on himself a couple of times on the approach to his digs, just in case. Comes in from the west, sun setting behind him. He spots Frank half a klik away. The guy’s lurking opposite the building, wearing a watch cap and slouching into his coat like he’s casing the place. Real unsubtle. Billy slinks through an alley and comes up at the edge of the block.

‘How much?’ he asks, and grins when Frank jumps.

‘Fuck you,’ Frank tells him, just like old days.

‘Yeah,’ Billy tells him. ‘C’mon.’ He jaywalks across the road and opens the side gate. From any side of the building, you’d never know there was someone living in there. It looks shabby from the outside. Billy paid in cash, no questions asked, and his fake documents weren’t questioned. It’s in good repair, though, and it’s got the narrow, defensible stairwells and small windows that Billy had been looking for. The place is rigged to hell and back and God help anyone who breaks in looking for shelter, or for a good time.

He leads Frank through the building.

‘Nice place.’

‘Wait ‘til you see the bedroom.’

Frank coughs out a little laugh, surprised or excited. For once, Billy is actually being sincere. It’s a good bedroom. Up until now, it was exclusively for him. If he was taking someone home, it was to his Manhattan place. More conducive to socialising. But Billy knows that Frank will appreciate this more. It’s more to their tastes.

‘Voila,’ Billy says, ushering Frank in. It’s a large room, with the windows painted out from the inside. Billy has installed lighting in all the nooks and alcoves and it lights the place well, but strangely. Throws angular shadows around. The bed is huge, silk-covered. The bathroom is a wet room. There’s a deep, cushiony sofa in the corner, and a booze cabinet. What Billy wants around, and only that. No lies. No conceits. No fashion. Billy sleeps better here than he does anywhere else.

‘You expecting trouble, Bill?’ Frank’s taking off his coat and hat, throwing them on the couch. ‘That why you’re holed up here?’

‘Hope for the best, plan for the worst and all that.’ Billy grabs a couple of glasses, half-fills them with bourbon.

‘Thought you’d be past all that by now.’

Billy smiles and hands over a glass. ‘Just a precaution. Anyway, if I’d given you my Manhattan address, every security camera in the building would have clocked you. You want that?’

Frank sips in silence, brooding. Up close, Billy can see the truth of the last few years written into his face. Yeah, Frank looks older. And there’s a tightness in the way he holds his upper body. When Billy gets Frank’s clothes off, he reckons he’ll find a few more scars.

‘This is good,’ Frank says, raising his almost-empty glass.

‘Could give you something better,’ Billy tells him. Frank always did stand around like a lump until he got directions. He gets with the program pretty quickly when Billy comes over to him and takes the glass out of his hand.

This time, he kisses Frank right. He could be mean and Frank would get off on it just fine, but he goes for sweet. Feeling the way Frank leans in and opens his mouth for Billy’s tongue makes Billy think it’s been a while for him. That maybe he hasn’t touched anyone since Maria. Cute. Billy forgets sometimes how weirdly sentimental Frank gets about his people; as far as he could tell, Maria was just a regular chick who cared more about the kids than Frank. Listening to Frank go on about her, you’d have thought she was a saint.

Billy realises that his fingers are gripping Frank’s shoulders so hard that they ache. He doesn’t want to think about Little Miss Housewife Maria and her untouchable memory. Instead, he navigates Frank towards the bed. Frank goes without complaint or question; submits to Billy pulling off his belt, popping the button and fly on his jeans. Frank pulls his t-shirt over his head and drops it on the floor. Christ, he looks good. Billy wasn’t wrong about the scars. He presses his fingers to one, a round knot of tissue in Frank’s shoulder.

‘Nearly got me,’ Frank mumbles against Billy’s neck.

‘Bad luck,’ Billy laughs, shoving Frank onto the mattress and taking off his shirt and slacks. He hangs them over a chair while Frank watches, one hand under his head and the other palming at his dick. ‘You expecting a show or something?’

‘You’re always a show.’ Frank bares his teeth.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Billy says happily. He tackles Frank on the bed and digs his fingers into Frank’s ribcage until he yells. Then they’re kissing again, harder this time, and Billy wonders how long Frank is going to last. If he’ll be any good. Frank’s hands are everywhere on him. His back, down his arms. Cupping the back of his neck and then spanning his jaw. Grabbing at his ass. Frank does his usual trick when he gets excited and rolls Billy over onto his back, gets on top of him.

‘Nothing’s changed, right?’ he asks against Billy’s mouth. His hand is rough and warm on the inside of Billy’s thigh, and Billy shivers. He thinks about playing with Frank some more and discards the idea. Coy never did Frankie any favours.

‘Nah,’ Billy says, grabbing Frank’s wrist and relocating his hand lower down. ‘You can fuck me.’

As always, when Frank gets direction he runs with it. Billy lets it happen. He lets Frank spit and press two thick fingers into him, lets Frank nudge him onto his belly and use his mouth for a while, until Billy is reaching to grab Frank’s hair with one hand and gripping the sheets, white-knuckled, with the other.

‘You want it?’ Frank asks, voice blurry. His hand is resting on the back of Billy’s thigh and he squeezes it interrogatively.

‘Yeah,’ Billy says, and Frank manoeuvres up the bed a little. Without preamble, he touches the head of his cock up against Billy’s hole and leans into it. Billy grunts and involuntarily flinches away for a moment. The tight burn of it is a surprise after so long. Frank flattens a hand against Billy’s back to hold him still, and abruptly the angle is right and Frank is pressing into him an aching half inch at a time.

It’s slow at first and then it’s quick. Billy’s gritting his teeth and then he’s open-mouthed and gasping. He’s sweating down his back. Frank is curled over him and making him even warmer. Frank’s mouth is at Billy’s throat and his left hand fumbles for Billy’s, curling their fingers together.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Frank says indistinctly. He’s fucking Billy the way Billy always liked, hard and deep like a piston. Billy jerks himself with a moan, which he follows up with another one, higher, just to get Frank off. _Come on,_ he thinks, wanting to hear it, wanting to feel it. He pushes back on Frank’s dick. Whatever Frank says is muffled by the pillow or Billy’s skin; Billy just hears the deep vibration of it, and his body reverberates in reply, all his nerves alight.

Nobody could ever fuck him like Frank could.

Frank’s rhythm is stuttering. Billy has that strange, delirious joy that he always gets when someone wants him, is fascinated by him, is driven to the edge by him. He chases it.

‘Come on my face,’ he tells Frank. Frank’s whole body shudders and he stops breathing for a second, and Billy briefly thinks he’s come. But he pulls out and they wrestle into a different position, Frank kneeling over Billy’s chest. There are angles that Billy knows look good. He throws one arm behind his head and tilts his chin up. Looks at Frank’s thick cock in his thick hand like it’s dessert. Frank’s face is flushed all the way into his hairline and down his chest. He jacks himself a couple of times and Billy half-closes his eyes, waiting for it, expecting it.

Then Frank braces himself on either side of Billy’s shoulders and pushes his cock between Billy’s lips. A fleeting notion of disgust is chased away by the velvety drag of Frank’s dick down Billy’s tongue, once, twice, and then the jerk and pulse and salt of him coming. Billy’s mouth waters for it. He swallows a couple of times in quick succession, but all the same he overflows and Frank’s come runs out the corner of his mouth.

Before he can move or try to talk, Frank gets his fingers back into Billy and fucks him with them. He’s not careful about it. Billy’s cock rubs against the inside of Frank’s wrist, which is all it takes: he sobs out a choking, wet moan, mouth and nose full of Frank’s smell, hungry for him.

Afterwards, Frank is bashful. He kisses Billy sweetly after he pulls out and tells him to take the bathroom first. Billy does, showering quickly and idly fingering himself where Frank’s left him feeling bruised and good. By the time Frank is clean and dry and sliding into bed with him, Billy is half-napping.

‘You’re a good man, Bill,’ Frank says, his voice already drowsy too. He throws an arm over Billy’s waist and presses his cheek against Billy’s back. ‘Glad Curtis has you watching his back.’

‘Sure,’ Billy says, and he hopes to God his voice doesn’t give anything away.

**x.**

Frank’s walking home from the grocery store, head down and minding his own business. It’s a cold night and he’s got his collar turned up against a biting wind. It isn’t helping much. The rucksack of groceries is making his back sweat a little and that chills him even more. The nearest grocery store in his shithole neighbourhood isn’t much good, but he’s got beans and rice and a bag of apples. He’s not going to starve. He’s had worse. The night’s so unpleasant that he drifts into thinking about Billy just to distract himself. The feel of him, after so long. Christ.

He’s so deep in thought that he almost forgets to check under the bridge with the railway arches—nothing—and he’s still kicking himself over that when, right outside his apartment building, someone says his name.

He freezes for a split second, which he knows is enough to give him away. And then, right away, his hand’s going for his gun.

‘Relax,’ says a man’s voice, hoarse and cold. ‘I’m here to offer you information.’

Frank turns, hand still hovering over his pistol.

‘Come out into the light, slowly and with your hands in sight.’ Frank’s up on the balls of his feet, ready to react. The guy shuffles out from his dark corner into the musty yellow glow of a streetlight. He’s a big dude with a shaved head and a resolute kind of chin. Frank doesn’t want to have to fight him. He’s already bruised from the last guy. The man has military bearing, so it isn’t surprising when he says,

‘I’m from Anvil.’

‘Your boss send you?’

‘Nah,’ he says, and he swallows hard. Frank’s not really sure he wants to hear what makes one of Billy Russo’s handpicked men nervous.

‘Out with it,’ he says, anyway. The guy’s tongue darts out over his lower lip. He casts a glance up the road and takes a couple of steps towards Frank. ‘That’s close enough,’ Frank tells him.

‘Saw you visiting your buddy,’ says the guy. ‘Tracked you.’

A rush of cold adrenaline washes through Frank, and for a desperate moment he considers just ending the guy and dumping him in the river. To protect Curtis.

‘What do you want? Money?’

‘No, man,’ says the guy, defensively putting his palms up towards Frank. ‘Like I told you, I got information. Some shit going down at Anvil with your buddy.’

‘With Billy Russo?’

‘Nah. Curtis. Hey man, can we get inside? It’s cold as balls out here. I waited like two hours for you.’

‘I’m not cold,’ Frank tells him. ‘We talk here. You’ve got two minutes.’

‘Shit,’ says the guy. ‘Okay, okay. So your buddy Curtis, Russo has been helping him out with this murder thing. You know, the guys someone’s been killing. That’s why we were keeping an eye on his apartment. I think Russo’s been telling Curtis he’s going to track down whoever’s been killing his guys.’

‘I knew that,’ Frank tells him. ‘And now you have one minute.’ Okay, he hasn’t checked his watch. But the guy is low-key freaking out, and Frank has his hand visibly resting on his gun.

‘So if all that’s true,’ the guy says, scrambling the words out, ‘why do I see half a dozen of Russo’s best guys taking orders after hours?’ He shrugs. ‘I listened in round the corner. Russo’s giving them the names of a bunch of vets Curtis knows.’

‘For protection?’

‘If it was for protection, those guys should be fired. Check the news, man—some guy called Tom Munro showed up dead this morning. His name was on the list. I remembered, ‘cause I had a dog called Munroe when I was a kid.’

Frank doesn’t give a shit about the guy’s dog. Already he’s mentally slotting the pieces into place, accounting for coincidence, misunderstanding, miscommunication. If it was anybody else, the cynical part of Frank’s brain would be all over this shit. But Billy Russo? Billy walked away from a bad op before anybody else, and made a good life for himself. Frank would trust him with his life. Has done, many times. So why the hell would Billy now be trying to manifest some insane serial murder plot?

Frank says as much.

The guy rubs at the back of his thick neck with one hand. ‘What if I told you I knew the next target?’

‘Do you?’

‘Yeah. Okay, I don’t know his name. I know how it’s gonna go down though. Canarsie, near the pier. In a park. Tonight.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Just what I heard.’

‘You hear a lot.’

‘I keep my ears open. There’s backchannels.’

‘I don’t trust you,’ Frank tells the guy. The guy pulls a regretful face, shrugs again.

‘Sorry, man. Just felt like I should tell you what I knew. It sounded bad.’

‘Things are gonna get real bad for you if you don’t fuck off,’ Frank says, not really committing to the menace of it. He doesn’t need to, because already the guy is leaving. He takes a few steps backwards, and then turns and hustles himself down the end of the street and around the corner. Frank watches him go for a while, stands there for another couple minutes, then takes a road that leads him away from his home before looping back.

He thinks about calling Curtis and taking him along. Curtis would want to be there, would want to know. Frank gets as far as taking his phone out and scrolling through his short list of contacts, before putting it away again. Nah. He’ll recon this himself. Curtis has been through enough.

* * *

Later, alone, groceries stashed back home and his pistol a comfortable weight against his body, Frank rides the subway almost alone and gets off at Canarsie-Rockaway. End of the line. Then it’s a long, chilly walk down to the park. It’s a stupid thought, but he fancies that he can still smell Billy, still taste him. Somehow the trace of him is still clinging to Frank. He feels complicit: a murderer in bed with a murderer.

‘You don’t know it was him,’ he mutters to himself. For a moment he sees himself from the outside: a tall, scarred man, grim-faced, talking to himself late at night. Fortunately there’s nobody much else around to hear him.

He skirts the perimeter of the park first, scoping it out. It’s not a large green space. The neighbourhood is blandly working class, quiet, mostly well-kept but notably inexpensive. It’s not a park where drug deals go down. In the early hours of the morning it’s empty. Frank ghosts down the grassy edges of the paths, stepping softly, alert to any sound or movement. He feels supernaturally enhanced, like the guy in Harlem who they say can punch through walls, or the red devil in Hell’s Kitchen. The cold has a smell to it, grass and earth, faint but there.

Frank rounds a corner and there it is: the unmistakeable slumped form. The man lies curled up in a pool of his own dried blood, by now a dark, thick stain wrinkled at the edges. At some point, surface tension had held a few small leaves on top, but now they’re half-sunk. Little ruined boats, Frank thinks. He can smell the death, even from where he’s standing a few feet away. Dawn is making its creeping, grey path up over the horizon and he doesn’t want to be seen crouching over a dead body. So he looks from a safe distance, a few paces away.

Whoever he was the guy didn’t die easy. His palms and fingers are sliced to ribbons, one of them flung out and lying palm-up. His dark green anorak is slashed at the forearms and down one side. But the fatal wound is his throat. It’s punctured five or six times, in triangular slits that are clustered together. All but one, further down in the hollow of his throat. Frank can tell without any forensics training that whoever did this was either angry or excited about it. He can see it in his mind’s eye: the killer comes in close, the victim fending him off. But the victim is old and his body is worn down from sleeping rough and from the alcohol that’s broken the blood vessels in his nose and cheeks. The killer manages to get in close. He senses victory. He strikes once, which with a little time is enough to kill the man. Blood’s in the water and he strikes again, again. The last vicious stab is a downward punch as the man falls to his knees, so it goes wide and glances off his collarbone.

Frank has seen those wounds before. He’s watched them rip into someone, delivered with swift, repeated thrusts of Billy’s wrist blade. A little device that was banned, unless you were running an op masterminded by mean motherfuckers in a corner of the world that nobody was watching, which was all of them, all the time.

He grimaces. The sun is right on the edge of rising for real now, and Frank doesn’t need any more information. He walks away, careful not to hurry, until he hits the path and follows it to the edge of the park. It’s easy to melt into the network of stores and restaurants, walking past the delivery guys and cleaners that are going about their early-morning routine. Three blocks away, from a payphone, he calls the police.

It feels like the least he could do.

Except, there's one more thing he needs to do. He could call Billy, but he's not sure what to say. He's not even really sure what to text.

When he gets home, he showers the sweat off and thinks about it in the shower: the next move. He turns it over in his head until the water runs cold, and then he sits on the edge of the bed in his towel and thinks about it some more. The burner phone he's used to call Billy is in the dresser with his t-shirts. Frank thumbs it on and opens a new message:

_canarsie_

He dries his hair and beard and waits for the response. It's almost immediate.

 _Clever boy,_ Billy texts back. It's easy to imagine the exact way he says it, wryly flirtatious. Another text beeps through with coordinates and a time.

'Fuck you, Bill,' Frank says. A dull ache has started up in his stomach. Expecting everything to turn out well was never in Frank's playbook, but it was naive to think that he might be doing something good for Curtis. Naive to imagine that he and Billy might finally be able to make something work out between them. No more naivete. Frank dresses, calls out sick to work and then reaches under his bed for his duffel bag. It's heavy with his gear. He drags it out and unzips it, looking at the contents. A whole armoury, and he might need every piece in it. Every trick that Frank knows, Billy knows too. 

**xi.**

Frank scopes out the building all afternoon, from a rooftop half a mile away. He hunkers down with a well-shielded scope and watches, watches for anything at all. A part of him wants to see Billy. Another part of him hopes he doesn’t have to see him. If he were in Billy’s shoes right now, he’d have set up an ambush. Or some kind of nasty little trick - a grenade triggered by a door opening. There’s no way of knowing until he gets down there.

Come dusk, Frank packs his gear away and double-checks everything from his shoelaces to his hidden knife. Then he does it over again, more slowly this time. When he can’t put it off any more, he walks low to the stairwell and descends through the service stairs of the building, his boots echoing through the concrete. He takes the long way around to the squat little building where he’s agreed to meet Billy. Approaches cautiously from the west with the setting sun behind him to maximise his visibility and diminish Billy’s. All the little things that keep you alive; all the little things that Billy knows just as well as him.

If this were a chess match, Frank would say they were pretty evenly matched. But then again, Billy has something directing him and Frank’s all alone. He’s even turned down Curtis’ offer of an extra pair of eyes, even though it made sense. There’s nobody in the world he trusts more than Curtis, except maybe Karen. Billy doesn’t care about trust, or loyalty, or fair play. So Curtis and Karen, if they have any sense, are at home keeping their heads down.

Frank’s at the door now. He casts a casual eye around to make sure nobody can see him before he examines the doorframe and the handle. He shrugs and opens it. It barely makes a noise. It wouldn’t be out of character for Billy to have maintenance done on the place. Frank pulled the ownership records for the property; it’s Anvil’s, bought three years ago for commercial purposes. There’s an open application for planning permission to put in high grade fencing and a guard’s box for the parking lot behind, but it’s still under review.

The ground floor opens out into one massive, empty space, interspersed with squat grey pillars. Above, an office with a long metal stair leading up the inner wall. Light industry, Frank figures, with a little crow’s nest for the big boss. The only place Billy would be.

Frank takes his time. Billy already knows he’s here. He pulls his gun out and holds it low, safety off. He's prickling all over with wary anticipation; the electric charge they say comes right before the lightning strikes you. His hands feel thick and half-numb on his weapon. Once everything kicks off it'll go away, and his focus will sharpen. His mind and body working together as a perfect machine. It's the waiting that he can't stand.

At the top of the stairs Frank stops and stands very still, listening. The wooden door is slightly ajar, the window papered over with newsprint from December 2003. They were in Iraq then, he thinks. He can't hear anything but the rush and throb of his own tinnitus.

He opens the door with his foot, gun up. And stops.

There’s nothing in the room except an old desk with the drawers removed. Everything smells cold and stale, like old dust. The heating hasn’t been run in the building for some time and the chill has seeped into the bricks. Frank waits, confused, for the other shoe to drop.

'Well, hell,' he says eventually. The place really is empty. Something bright catches his eye: a white, clean envelope on the desk. It's marked with a lopsided black scribble of a bird, viewed from the side like a hieroglyph. Frank shoves his gun in his waistband and picks it up. When he runs his thumbs over the thick paper, the rough skin on his cuticles catches.

He rips the end open and reads the single page letter inside.

> _Raven,_
> 
> _Didn’t feel like catching a bullet with my skull today, so this is what you get. I had someone drop it off a couple of days ago. Hope you had fun, surveilling an empty building. It’s been a trip keeping one step ahead of you, that’s for sure._
> 
> _Don’t tie yourself in knots searching for me in the city. I’ve got a shiny new life waiting for me somewhere a long way away from here. Somewhere my puppet masters won’t think to look. You could probably figure it out if you wanted—you’ve known me far too long. We've been in this since way before Kandahar, but Kandahar's the reason you were a liability and why you had to be taken out._
> 
> _If you were looking for answers, forget it. It’s the same guys and the same game. I didn’t get a new name and identity like you, so our old friend knew exactly where to find me. He kept me in the dark about the target for a while or I might have disappeared myself earlier. For what it’s worth, I was sorry about the guys that ended up dead. They could have been us, you know?_
> 
> _Oh yeah—the other thing was a trip, too. You always were a good time._
> 
> _Blackbird_

The pain in Frank’s chest is so sudden and intense that he touches his sternum gingerly, wondering if Billy’s posted up on a building somewhere with his rifle. There’s nothing but unbroken skin under his fingers, though, and Billy isn’t anywhere. Frank sits down on the busted desk. It creaks under his weight. He reads the letter over and over, and he wonders exactly what the fuck he’s going to say to Curtis.

**xii.**

Two months of folding and unfolding Billy's letter has left it soft and fraying across the middle. Frank knows it by heart but he still finds himself reaching for it a dozen times a day, like some folks can't live without checking their cellphones. In his more frantic moments he wonders if Billy's hidden a message within it. _You could probably figure it out if you wanted._

‘Frank?’ Curtis is saying his name.

‘Yeah. I’m listening. The, uh, new place. The thing.’

‘The restaurant, Frank. My sister’s restaurant. Opening night. Tables.’ Curtis mimes eating. ‘Food?’

‘Right. Sorry, Curt. Wednesday?’

‘Wednesday. Seven.’

‘I can be there.’

‘Can you bring your A-game, man? Or like, any game at all?’ Curtis is joking but there’s a seriousness around his eyes.

‘You know I don’t have your social graces.’

‘I’m not asking for graces, Frank.’ Curtis fiddles with the handle of his espresso cup. ‘Just don’t kill the vibe, okay? I’m really out to impress Karen, here.’

The first time Curtis had brought up Karen, he had been tactful about it. In the aftermath of the murders, of Billy skipping town, they had all felt the urge to hash it out. They’d met, all three of them. In Curtis’ apartment and then Karen’s. Going through all the information as if somehow the ultimate conclusion would be different and there’d be a good story, a clean mission, a tidy package of closure at the end. There never was. But Curtis and Karen seemed to have found something else in those late night meetings, and now Curtis is telling Frank loud and clear that he’s going to ask her out.

‘That’s great,’ Frank says, although it galls him more than it should.

‘All right.’

Frank crushes the little circle of foam at the bottom of his cup with the back of a teaspoon. He’s got an itch to reach into the inner pocket of his coat for Billy’s letter again.

Not in front of Curtis, though. Curtis is handling shit—or at least, he’s proclaiming to be handling shit. When Frank had found the letter, he’d called Curtis immediately. His voice had echoed in the empty building as he tried to explain down the phone. Then he had stumbled over to Curtis’ apartment, numbed, baffled by how much it all hurt but feeling inclined through force of habit to keep moving. _Move or die, Marine._ What he had previously interpreted as the day-to-day discomfort of living had, he realised, been child’s play. Billy had eviscerated him.

In fact Frank had looked so bad that Curtis had poured some rum into him— _all I’ve got, sorry_ —before he had asked for details.

‘He wasn’t there,’ Frank had said, confused, and handed over the note. Curtis had read it slowly and then poured himself a drink, too.

‘I said all right.’ Curtis is prompting him again. Frank pulls himself back to the conversation in the here and now.

‘Yeah. All right.’

Curtis gives up on prodding him and watches the foot traffic outside. A little dog, a terrier with a moustache, trots by and hesitates to look in the window. Curtis touches two fingers to the glass and the dog tries to sniff them before his owner pulls him away. He trots on, his red harness showing bright against the sprinkle of snow on the sidewalks.

Frank watches Curtis watching the dog. Curtis’ arm is stretched out casually over the back of the seat next to him. Frank pictures Karen sitting there, painting her in so that she’s got her outside leg crossed towards Curtis and she’s leaning into him a little. They’re about the same height. They’re good people. Frank can imagine it easily: a life of cosy diners and book launches, after-dinner drinks and weekend getaways to the country. Living in Curt’s apartment, because it’s bigger. Curtis waking her up with coffee in the morning and packing her off to work an hour before he leaves, because news never sleeps and Karen eats, sleeps and breathes it. Karen, on the sofa late at night, banging out a final article.

Like the one she published last month, the end of the series about the veteran murders. NO PROGRESS ON SERIAL MURDERS: POLICE CLOSE CASE. So everyone can move on. The two of them, happy. Without him.

Frank’s been thinking about that for a while. About the future. About what comes next. He knows that Karen and Curtis keep inviting him places to try to get him out into the world. Karen even introduced him to a couple of her colleagues at happy hour. Curtis still tells him once in a while that he’s got an open invitation to come to group.

He looks at the two empty coffee cups on the table, and at Curtis, still gazing out the window. Curtis is gently rubbing his knee with the heel of his hand, round in circles, which he does sometimes when what’s left of his knee aches in the cold.

‘I think,’ Frank says very slowly, pressing Billy’s letter against his ribcage through his jacket, ‘that I need to go after him.’

Abruptly, Curtis’ hand stops moving. He doesn’t look at Frank. ‘You know where he is,’ he says, very neutrally.

‘Yeah.’ Frank’s known since he read the letter, although it didn’t fully dawn on him until a couple of days later when he was sleepless and watching the dawn break through the tiny window of his single-occupancy unit.

Curtis runs his fingertips across the edge of the coffee table. ‘How long have you known?’ Finally he looks at Frank, pinning him with a gaze.

‘Not long,’ Frank lies, looking right back at him.

‘You’re a lousy goddamn liar.’

‘Billy used to talk big about all the places he was gonna go,’ Frank said, remembering. ‘The apartment in Manhattan, the summer house in Martha’s Vineyard, you know, dumb shit.’

‘He got the apartment,’ says Curtis.

‘Anyway, he was always on about this shit. I figure I know which one was the nuclear option.’

‘You gonna tell me?’

‘No.’ Frank chews the inside of his cheek. ‘I don’t want you or Karen involved in this any more.’

‘You know Karen wants to write a follow-up. Get a couple anonymous quotes. Review the Anvil board of directors. Dig into the story.’

‘She didn’t tell me about that.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So what, Curt, you want to give her a quote? Let her walk right into the firing line? It’s going to get back to him. Plenty of guys in the city to do his dirty work.’

‘I don’t tell her how to behave.’

Frank wants to fire back, _neither do I_. He represses it. The callouses on his hands are still hard but they’re not blistered any more. Curtis scored him a gig working security at a downtown office, the same building Curtis sells insurance from. They do lunch sometimes. Frank gets a regular paycheque, overtime and a travel allowance. He moved last month into a studio in Bed-Stuy. He bought a toaster oven. ‘I tried to be a regular guy. I really tried.’

Curtis sighs and rubs his hand over his face. ‘Yeah, man, I know. _We_ know. Been watching you try for weeks.’

‘I don’t think group’s gonna fix what’s wrong with me.’ Frank has listened in on the tail end of more than one of Curtis’ group sessions and so he knows that usually Curtis would say, _there is nothing wrong with you_ , or _our trauma doesn’t make us broken_ , or his favourite, _it’s not what’s wrong with you, it’s what happened to you_. But Curtis doesn’t say that right now and Frank knows that Curtis knows he’s a fuck-up.

It’s started snowing again and in the grey dusk the snowflakes are hanging like stars under all the streetlights. The cafe is slowly emptying out. It’s the kind of place that closes before dinner time and people are keen to get home at this time of year. Behind the counter, the barista is wiping everything down. The music ticks down a few notches in volume.

‘They’re gonna want us out of here soon,’ says Curtis.

‘Yeah.’ Frank reaches behind him for his coat and shrugs it on over his jacket. Billy’s letter crinkles a little. He tucks his chair neatly under the table and watches Curtis fold his dark red scarf neatly, so it pops from under his coat collar. The scarf looks new. It’s a colour Karen would wear.

They step out into the cold and Curtis whuffs out a breath.

‘Hope he’s somewhere warm,’ he says, making a weak joke and fishing at the same time. He gives Frank a hug, and Frank tries not to cling to him. ‘You let me know, before you leave,’ he says.

‘Won’t go without saying goodbye.’ Frank hates how gruff he sounds, hates the burning in his throat. He turns to go before it gets any more embarrassing. He’s hardly gone five paces when Curtis calls from behind him.

‘When you find him, what are you going to do?’

Frank half-turns. ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he says, and this time he doesn’t have to lie.


End file.
